Picking up the Pieces
by BigBlacKitty
Summary: Sometimes things that are mended remain broken. [Fai centric Angst, minor hints of Kurogane]


**Disclaimer: **I do not own CLAMP's characters; I just like to mess with 'em.

**A/N: **This fic occurred to me in a weird moment whilst picking up the shards of a broken biscuit jar this morning. Yes, I know, my muse works in strange ways. XD It's my first go at second-person and I'd greatly appreciate **reviews/comments**. A lot of you have added/fav'ed/alerted my recent fics (especially "Gradauted Fool", which will be updated soon. :D) and it means _a lot_ to me, but I'd really like you to tell me _why_...and commenting just wastes a minute of your day but makes mine.

Hope you enjoy. Over.

**jackpirate13/BigBlacKitty** (until recently known as WatanuKimihiro)

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**Shards**

He sees it coming before you do, yet you're deaf to his warning and you don't realize until it's too late, until the laughter fades.

To you, it happens so fast that there's no way to stop it: a miscalculated step, one twitching of loosened fingers and the mirror slips from your grasp, crashing to pieces at your feet. There's a ringing in your ears as you listen to the noise fading, the only proof you have that time has not just frozen and left you to look down at the ruins forever, trapped in your own mistakes and your own guilt-ridden questioning of how this could have happened. How you could have lost concentration, lost control for that one, trivial moment, why you couldn't have just held on for a moment longer.

Perhaps your fingers were shaking in the first place.

There's no-one left to pick up the shards but you and, even if there were someone, you'd only smile and act as though it's alright and your mistake means your mess and you'll take of it yourself. After all, it's just a mirror and mirrors can be pieced together again. You try to believe that the pieces of glass are large and with a little hope and glue, they'll hold just like they used to. It's nothing to cry over, even though you can feel the tears clogging up your throat and you're secretly relieved when the door clicks shut and you're left alone. But still, you don't let yourself go. There's still one person you have to pretend to be strong for as you kneel down to gather up the shards.

It's careful work and your fingers tremble around the debris, trying to pick out the large pieces first, the ones that will surely do less damage to your hands, leave the smaller imprint on your skin, yet they hurt all the same. They hurt with the hope they possess, the sturdiness of their outline, for their edges are wider than the rest and leave the deepest wound on your soul, of happiness that once was yours, and the way you were too foolish to see it would never last. They're beautiful when you hold them up to the light shimmering through the semi-curtained window, reflecting your face with bright colours you've almost forgotten existed, leaving you warm in their wake. Until your fingers slip around the edge and blood drops into your lap, erasing the beauty of it forever.

The small shards are harder to grasp and slip from your hold several times before you succeed. They aren't as marvelous as the larger fragments and can hardly catch a beam of sunshine at all, but there's something precious about them as you gather them in the palm of your hand. The mirror isn't complete without the small pieces to hold the rest together, even if they can be easily crushed and forgotten under the importance of the rest, how even they managed to shine, if only for a while. And as you empty your hands of them; your palm is etched with small, smarting cuts that make you question how something so painful can be so fascinating at the same time.

Bit by bit the mirror starts to recover, the pieces slide against each-other and a small smile curves on your lips as every shard finds its place in the frame. You worry that you might have forgotten a few, some that might have been too insignificant and small to notice, but in the end they're all there where they belong and the mirror is whole again. The glue has dried and, feeling pleased with your work, you hold it up to your face, displaying a wide, proud smile. But the cracks are still visible and the smile looks fake and lopsided in the glass. Mended…but still broken.

The dark-haired one finds you later, crouching in the corner and crying, tears spilling down onto a mirror which even he would tell you is time to finally throw away.


End file.
